


Of tears and lame jokes

by Hanatatami



Category: DCU (Comics), Detective Comics (Comics), Super Sons (Comics)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Vague about canon and time because I'm like that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 16:34:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20510096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hanatatami/pseuds/Hanatatami
Summary: It wasn't unusual for Damian to see him like this. Chest naked, guard low, unprotected. Damian could never, however, get used to the sight of the injuries on Jon's back.





	Of tears and lame jokes

It was wasn't an overstatement to say Damian knew every inch of his lover's body. He could easily remember the curve of his spine, the firmness of his legs, the strength of his arms around his torso whenever Jon decided that it was quicker to fly.

They'd been together for a while, met even longer back. Years had shaped their relationship to what it had slowly became— from many petty fights through countless villain encounters and even more lover's quarrels, they went from pretty much hating each other to becoming as close as two people could be.

So it wasn't unusual for Damian to have seen many faces that Jon wouldn't usually wear outside their comfortable space for two.

It wasn't unusual for him to see him like this. Chest naked, guard low, unprotected. And he got used to it surprisingly easily.

Damian could never, however, get used to the sight of the injuries on Jon's back, or the way his face contorted in pain whenever Damian was trying to treat his wounds.

"I'm going to clean your back." Damian submerged a piece of cloth in warm water, wrung it almost dry, "Try not to move too much."

Jon tried his best not to flinch or move a muscle when the towel touched his body, and Damian could tell. Damian tried his best to maintain his poker face, steady his hands, and wished that the fact that Jon wasn't looking at his face helped him to avoid Jon noticing, too.

Damian clenched his jaw, remembering back to those days his intellectual curiosity made him wonder whether Jon bled red, blue, or anything at all.

He bled red alright — as did right here, right now, right under his hands, and Damian hated it. 

"I'm surprised," Damian said, opening a pack of gauze swabs, wetting them with alcohol, "that super-healing isn't part of your repertoire of alien abilities."

Jon chuckled, winced at the sting of the liquid on the open wounds of his back, "I'm only half Kryptonian. And it's been pretty cloudy lately."

"If you were to ask me," Damian took a couple of roll of bandages from the kit he was working with, "Those are some lame superpowers."

If Damian was a bit more careless, perhaps he would have taken the liberty to dress his wounds as quickly as he could, take the less time possible, so he wouldn't have to see it for this long. But he couldn't bring himself to do a messy job when treating Jon's injuries.

"Done." He checked the firmness of the bandages one last time, his fingers trying to avoid, slowly, carefully, the paths of red that tinted the white fibers. Damian took his hands away, gave him a soft pat on his healthy shoulder, "Go sit under the sun lamp."

Jon turned slightly, gave him a smile, "Thanks, love."

Maybe it was the earlier fight, the exhaustion, the adrenaline finally washing out of his system. Damian quickly blinked his tears away, almost by reflex, before even noticing them forming in his eyes.

Jon, of course, took notice. He frowned, visibly worried, "Dami—"

Jon extended his hand toward him, but Damian pulled away, " _ Don't _ ."

He thought he had overcome this. The unstoppable memories replaying on his mind, the stress-induced heart palpitations, the voices in his head that wouldn't stop telling him all he had done wrong.

"This shouldn't have happened," Damian pinched the bridge of his nose with his right thumb and forefinger, hands still gloved, to keep his tears from getting away, "I shouldn't have let it happen."

"Hey, it's okay." Jon replied, quickly, now turning completely to face Damian, "It was a mistake. An accident. It wasn't your fault."

"A  _ mistake _ ." There wasn't a thing such as a mistake or an accident, his mother— Talia used to say. They were excuses so the weak wouldn't have to accept their failures.

And he had failed to protect Jon.

"It's alright, I swear—"

"No, it isn't. It isn't  _ alright _ ." Damian rubbed his face with both palms, tugged at his own hair in exasperation, "You could have  _ died _ , Jon."

And it would have been his fault.

The response came quick and firm, yet still soft and warm as only Jon could make words sound in his voice, still so tinted by the sing-songy tones taken from his times in the countryside, "You could have died, too."

It was awfully bittersweet, knowing that his own actions led them to this, knowing that Jon would have sacrificed himself just to protect him.

Jon tried to take one of Damian hands on his, and this time, Damian let him.

"I just," Damian closed his eyes, "I don't want you to risk your life for my sake." He took, let out a breath trying to calm his voice. 

Damian looked at Jon's face, searching for something in his eyes he himself couldn't quite put into words. How did someone like him (moody, gloomy, dark) ended up with someone his total opposite, like Jon?

Damian looked down at his hands, brushed Jon's hand with his thumb.

Jon was so bright, so full of light, of life. Honest and unwavering and helpful to the brim, he was all Damian wished he could become and more. He didn't want to even entertain the possibility that, perhaps, one day Jon would be gone, leave him.

Was it too bad to want to hold onto the person that fought against his own darkness, the one who made him as happy as he never thought he could be?

Damian met Jon's eyes again, and said, "I don't want to have to take care of your dog if you die."

Jon let out a surprised laugh, both shocked and relieved at the joke, and the mood of the room seemed to improve. Damian's nerves calmed a little bit (Jon's laugh always had that effect on him) and he gave himself the luxury of a small smile.

"You have an entire zoo already," Jon made an attempt of taming Damian's hair a little, and he let him, "What's wrong with adding a dog?"

Damian closed his eyes, leaned towards Jon's hand, warmth, "I already have a canine exhibition, thank you very much."

"Yeah okay but," Jon added, "Both a black dog and a white dog on the same exhibition would look  _ really _ cool, don't you think?"

"I hate to admit it," Damian carefully rested his forehead on Jon's shoulder, "but you might be right on that."

Maybe, just maybe, he could just cast all his doubts aside. Or, at least, he could do for now, and it would be alright; it could be fine just to enjoy Jon's company, as long as he could, without having to think too much about how long it would last.

"I mean it." Damian finally added, voice soft yet still serious, "I'll never forgive you if you die on me. I'll dump you into a Lazarus pit if I have to, just so I can yell at you again."

Jon let out a soft chuckle, "You are so full of grudges, Damian, not even death can stop you." He then added, "I know you never forgave me for being both taller and older than you, either."

Damian quickly pushed Jon away, and to the surprise to the other boy, took out his cellphone from his pocket.

"Okay," He pointed it towards the long, tall sun lamp that stood right beside the small double couch that furnished Damian's hideout under the Wayne Manor, "I'm turning it off."

Jon saw the light die with genuine horror in his eyes, "Hey! That's  _ my _ lamp! My sun! My strength!"

"I was the one who bought it."

Jon pouted, knew best than to try to wrestle the device away from Damian's hands in his current condition, "But you bought it for  _ me _ ."

Jon was right, but even now Damian would never admit it.

"I'm punishing you," Damian twirled the phone on his hand, "for being such an asshole."

Damian rarely cursed— so it always surprised Jon when he did, made him laugh at how foreign those words sounded in his Gotham accent. It was a nice way to both distract him and cheer him up.

(And drop the subject about his height.)

"That's not faaaaair," Jon wrapped his arms around Damian's neck, sighed way too melodramatically, "I'm all hurt and bruised and worried about you and you treat me like this?"

"What?" Damian arched and eyebrow, "You want a lollipop so you can feel better now?"

"I don't know, maybe." Jon shrugged, still sulking, "I mean, a kiss would work too I guess."

A small twitch on the corner of his lips gave away the smile Damian was trying to hide, "You are such a kid." He untangled Jon's arms from him, cupped Jon's right cheek with his hand, and gave him a small peck on the corner of his lips, "Better?"

Jon blinked twice, processing the moment, then cried in indignation, "Barely!"

Damian patted Jon's cheek twice, "Too bad."

"But Damiaaaaan!"

Jon threw his head back as he complained, and Damian gave himself the freedom to laugh. 

And for that night, at least, he let himself be blissfully ignorant of their future.

"Say, Jon?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you. For what you did back out there, I mean."

Jon smiled, "Don't wor—"

Damian grabbed the back of Jon's neck, pulled him towards him, and kissed him— properly this time.

" _ Never _ do it again, though." 

Without waiting for a reply, Damian got up, walked towards a small closet hidden under the shadows of the room, and opened it, "Alright. Let's put you on a shirt before father sees you."

Jon grinned, got up too, and almost skipped as he followed him, "Roger that."

**Author's Note:**

> My first DamiJon. I wrote this on my phone. Hope you like it, :* mwah


End file.
